tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187Tue, 31 Mar 2015 10:38:05 +0000Awwww...Life in Imitation of Bad ComedyMargaret Thatcher's magnificent embonpointgolfown eyespitting into; existentialism; the Exxon Valdez oil spillBy Neddie Jingo!Just another dumb-ass yuppie in search of authenticityhttp://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/noreply@blogger.com (Neddie)Blogger920125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-577368625097292885Tue, 23 Jul 2013 20:10:00 +00002013-07-23T18:59:51.451-04:00The Cheesy Farfeezy and the Harp Through the Fender TwinHey, what happens when you lash together a garage full of drum gear, a son who happens to be a mighty good drummer and a fine summer's weekend morning?<br /><br />Why, you just might come up with something like this: Bob Dylan's "If You Gotta Go, Go Now," featuring Freddie Jingo on the traps! He smack 'em good!<br /><br /><iframe frameborder="no" height="260" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Fusers%2F52034048" width="100%"></iframe><br /><br />Microphones hung from ceiling rafters and shoved into kick-drums, computer gear lugged into place, MP3 guide track on the old iPod, and plenty of fine coffee. Makes for a grand way to pend a couple of hours.<br /><br />Afterward, back in the studio, added all the rest of the stuff you hear -- guitars, percussion, mouth harp, Cheesy Farfeesy.<br /><br />Damn, this was fun.<br /><br />And boy howdy, the song just reminds me once again: I sure as shootin' glad that I wasn't of the right age, the right sex, or the right geographic location to get on the pissed-off side of Bob Dylan in about 1964. <i>Woof!&nbsp;</i>http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2013/07/the-cheesy-farfeezy-and-harp-through.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-2347009157158094545Tue, 23 Jul 2013 17:38:00 +00002013-07-23T13:41:26.469-04:00Getcher Sexual, Lewd or Provocative Content Right Here!Well, this is a fine <strike>vessel of vagina</strike>&nbsp;kettle of&nbsp;fish...<br /><br />When I refreshed the look and feel of this place a couple of weeks ago, part of the process was a solicitation from AdSense to plunk down ads within the Friendly Confines. Never one to turn down the princely $1.78 per annum I would no doubt earn, I jumped through the hoops and applied.<br /><br />This came back a few days later:<br /><br /><div class="p1"><blockquote><b>To: [Proprietors, Neddie Jingo International Hegemonic Tendency, LLC]</b>&nbsp;</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><b>Subject:</b> <b>Google AdSense Account Status</b></blockquote><blockquote>Hello,&nbsp;</blockquote><blockquote>Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after<br />reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into AdSense at<br />this time.&nbsp;</blockquote><blockquote>We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below:</blockquote><blockquote>- Adult content<br />---------------------</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">Further detail:&nbsp;</blockquote><blockquote>Adult content: Currently, only Google ads that we classify as family-safe<br />are available through the AdSense program. We've found adult content on<br />your site. This includes text or images that contain sexual, lewd or<br />provocative content, and sites that require users to be at least 18, or<br />that may not be safe for work.</blockquote>Rather insulted, I reviewed the Friendly C.'s archives for Japanese-schoolgirl upskirts, stiffened giblets, Barenaked Ladies Showing <i>Everything, </i>or anything else that might roust out the lubricious energies of innocent teens and those who would gleefully quash them in a school or place of work, and found pretty darned close to billy-o. Yes, we are a trifle intemperate here and there with our "frickin's" and our "gol-dangs," I'll confess. But gee whiz, if racy collections of glyphs were the only criterion for denying a man a decent livelihood through his embroidery, the entire Internet would consist of Enid Blyton extracts, nursery rhymes and <i>Principia Mathematica.&nbsp;</i><br /><br />Then it struck me: Could they possibly be talking about the post from 2010 (it sat here at the top of the blog for eons while I was frying other fish) in which I limned a highly unlikely circumstance employing a tattooed lesbian, a Harley Davidson-branded marital device and a jealous husband -- a miracle of circumlocution and indirection, I thought at the time -- &nbsp;to set up <a href="http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2010/09/enquiring-minds-want-to-know.html">one of the worst puns ever perpetrated on the human race</a>?<br /><br />Reluctantly I must conclude that this is the case. Clearly, an examination of pornographic&nbsp;<a href="http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2012/07/what-passed-for-porn.html">Fifties dime-store novels</a> and their influence on the impressionable minds of the young Beatles can't be to blame. <a href="http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2010/08/who-do-you-call.html">Hyman Restoration</a> comedy? <a href="http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2008/12/just-like-christmas-tree-in-bondage.html">Christmas trees in bondage</a>? <a href="http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2008/03/bubbles.html">A trip to the hair salon</a>&nbsp;that engendered unwholesome thoughts? <a href="http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2007/04/what-is-sexy.html">Sexy, sexy laydeez in your mailbox</a> to rot your children's minds? Nope. Gotta be that pun.<br /><br />Frick it. I've clearly been played for a sucker. If putting up what any sane adult would view as perfectly wholesome content gets this place flagged as NSFW, then nothing is worth holding back any more. Might as well go whole-hog. Plunge into the filth, the muck, the slippery sleaze. The heck with your bourgeois propriety, AdSense, you bunch of dipsticky dookie-holes. It's not like everybody else isn't doing it...<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PmtV-_MV9lk/Ue66L5YwwyI/AAAAAAAAA20/Rb7ZyMI76p8/s1600/geraldoMakingAFoolOfHimself.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PmtV-_MV9lk/Ue66L5YwwyI/AAAAAAAAA20/Rb7ZyMI76p8/s400/geraldoMakingAFoolOfHimself.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /></div>http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2013/07/getcher-sexual-lewd-or-provocative.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-3483615889480276674Mon, 15 Jul 2013 17:28:00 +00002013-07-15T14:10:39.352-04:00Good Dog(Try to do this without being maudlin, OK?)<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4E5V_JsjddY/UeQj03Qzj0I/AAAAAAAAA2k/9U3efZ-YsGA/s1600/BestBuddy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4E5V_JsjddY/UeQj03Qzj0I/AAAAAAAAA2k/9U3efZ-YsGA/s400/BestBuddy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Back in February, we knew Django's days were numbered.<br /><br />We'd brought him in to the vet for a limp in his hind leg that didn't seem to be improving. Vet did the x-ray, and came back with the awful news: It was bone cancer. Advanced. The only medical choice was full amputation, and none of us, vet included, wanted to do that to a 14-year-old dog. It would have been the height of selfishness.<br /><br />Vet said, Best thing you can do is just keep him comfortable, out of pain as much as you can. Let him know you love him. He'll let you know when it's time.<br /><br />He'd had a very good, very long run. He never was much of a hunter -- or for that matter, a pretend-hunter, of the chase-the-stick, kill-the-ball variety -- it was his sister who filled that extroverted role. He was more your faithful, soulful guy who'd never leave your side when you were sick or hurt, and who took on your pain as his own. He loved us unreservedly, as good dogs do, and wore his heart on his sleeve. And we always tried to live up to that.<br /><br />Back when he was a pup, rescued with his sister from the Loudoun County shelter, I named him Django, after the Gypsy guitar-flogger I idolized. His sister became Ella, after Wonder Woman's favorite singer. Jazz dogs. Finest kind. Mother was a stray German Wirehaired Pointer who loved not wisely but too well; Dad was (we can only surmise) a Large Brown Dog. Django got the Large Brown genes; Ella got the Wirehairs. Her facial furnishings make her look like a particularly magnificent Civil War general. Django was... Well, look at him. Handsome, not pretty. Obedient, not servile. Soulful.<br /><br />Just a really good dog.<br /><br />He did let us know when it was time. All through his illness, he never complained, never acted out, never became cranky or nippy, as dogs in pain can. He was patient and loving to the end. But all the patience and love in the world won't beat cancer.<br /><br />On the day, Wonder Woman and I had to be the grownups. We heard and saw his suffering, and knew that nothing at all was giving him pleasure any more. It was time.<br /><br />We buried him in a nice, shady spot in the yard. I am going to sow wildflowers there when I get a minute. I do have a few of those left.http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2013/07/good-dog.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-6362076204508862470Sun, 14 Jul 2013 13:51:00 +00002013-07-14T09:53:07.516-04:00Two and Two TogetherLast night, Wonder Woman and I sat on the porch, enjoying the evening cool. I was watching "Soylent Green" on the lappie; Wondie watched desultorily over my shoulder and browsed on her tablet. No television, no contact with the outside world. A lovely evening overall.<br /><br />Shortly before ten or so, a nearby neighbor set off some fireworks. Not a grand cannonade, just a few whizz-pops. This has been going on periodically since the Fourth, so I thought it was just somebody finishing off this year's stash on a Saturday night, maybe after a few fizzy beverages. Certainly nothing to get worked up over.<br /><br />As soon as I'd discovered along with Charlton Heston that Soylent Green is made of &nbsp;(spoiler alert!) Edward G. Robinson, I remarked that I was getting gappy and was headed for bed. We noticed with a giggle that our Saturday evening was coming to an end at the truly Satanic hour of 10:15 PM; our dissipation, we concluded, is near complete.<br /><br />It wasn't until this morning that, fresh coffee in hand, I read that the George Zimmerman jury had handed down their astonishing verdict the previous evening. Profoundly depressed as I read though the article, I reflected that in many ways we are still living with hatreds and bigotries that have gnawed at me and, well, everybody else, since well before I was born.<br /><br />It wasn't until I saw the date-time stamp on the article -- 10:06 PM -- that I twigged to the events of the evening before.<br /><br />Those fireworks had gone off within a minute or two of the verdict's announcement.<br /><br />I truly don't know whose house the rockets were fired from. The tree-cover is far too thick this time of year to see any distance from our porch. But perhaps more importantly, I don't <i>want&nbsp;</i>to know. I wave cheerfully at any and all pedestrians and passing cars on our tiny dirt road, happy in the self-imposed delusion that we're all Very Nice People. Certainly not the kind of people who'd have cheered the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emmett_Till">Emmett Till verdict.</a><br /><br />I thought we were better than this.http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2013/07/two-and-two-together.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-4006601784848528446Fri, 12 Jul 2013 21:12:00 +00002013-07-12T18:08:18.210-04:00Plus Ça ChangeMy goodness, things do look a trifle... different... around here. Where the hell did that Breughel thing go?<br /><br />In gearing up to try to keep this place a teeny bit fresher than I've been able to the last couple of years, I have resorted to a bit of housekeeping. A bunch of scripts no longer worked, a few graphics got lost, and a whole lot of places in my blogroll have gone the way of the Cambrian Explosion.<br /><br />The new Blogger template that I chose doesn't let me do much by way of the ancient HTML tricks I used to have up my sleeve -- how the hell can I divide links up according to the Noble Eightfold Path if the template admits of exactly one kind of link? A step backwards, if you ask me. I'll get the Mobberly Story thing back up and running as soon as I get a minute. And I need that microscopic bagpipe-guy graphic to be comprehensible.<br /><br />On the other hand, SEO, way easier permalinks, wider page for modern monitors, a working mobile version.... These things are Not Bad. They are even, you could say, Quite Good. Now if I can just find a way to combine a graphic <i>and</i>&nbsp;searchable text in the header, I'll be golden. <b>(Edit:</b>&nbsp;There! Did it!)<br /><br />So meanwhile, to keep you entertained, here's a picture of Adolf Hitler striking a pose:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hmkuRZmyiYA/UeBvabuIL2I/AAAAAAAAA0I/F4SXTg_TrUg/s1600/UncleAddy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hmkuRZmyiYA/UeBvabuIL2I/AAAAAAAAA0I/F4SXTg_TrUg/s320/UncleAddy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/07/11/hitler-photos_n_3579507.html?utm_hp_ref=mostpopular">There's lots more</a> where that came from. Dude just couldn't help but be amusing.http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2013/07/plus-ca-change.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-4336302694549983135Wed, 10 Jul 2013 17:58:00 +00002013-07-10T13:58:47.746-04:00Strong Winds and Accompanying BotherWonder Woman and I were preparing for our day this morning in the bathroom: brushing teeth, polishing brass knuckles, shaving eyebrows and what-have-you. The radio was on, the usual Morning Edition fare.<br /><br />The weather report came on. We are to expect a cloudy and rainy day, highs in the low eighties. All very mundane stuff, not worth canceling plans over. Wondie wandered off into the bedroom, pondering the choice between the brass nose-ring or the onyx one I gave her for Arbor Day a few years back. I was left alone in meditative quiet as the radio droned on. Something about possible thunderstorms in the afternoon, which I dismissed as the Big-Government Socialist propaganda it no doubt was. As my toothbrush made its roborative way about the ancestral molars, the nice radio-lady intoned, quite portentously, that the predicted storms would bring the possibility of (I'm quite certain I heard this right) <a href="http://www.salon.com/2013/06/27/ammunitions_manufacturer_selling_pork_coated_bullets_to_fight_muslims_partner/">"strong winds and ham."</a><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FS4s60SpxjM/Ud2aLD__pKI/AAAAAAAAAzY/KV_tfBNHe_I/s1600/canned_ham.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FS4s60SpxjM/Ud2aLD__pKI/AAAAAAAAAzY/KV_tfBNHe_I/s320/canned_ham.jpg" width="233" /></a></div><br /><i>Dearie me,</i> I thought. Not only do I stand an excellent chance of getting the careful coiffure mussed, but I'll have to spend the day under trees and awnings, ducking cured-pork products. I supposed the local carnivorous fauna would consider themselves quite blessed with the windfall, nice fresh porkies falling as manna from the heavens. It would also mean that their usual prey -- the rabbit, vole, earthworm and groundhog communities -- would consider this a welcome holiday from the usual skulking and burrowing behaviors that is their allotment in life.<br /><br /><i>Ah, yes,</i> my powerful fish-fed brain continued in its inexorable train, <i>but what sort of ham?</i>&nbsp;Serrano? Smithfield? Prosciutto? Or -- perish the thought -- had Mother Nature decided to cheap out on us and rain down that horrible agar-embedded canned stuff from my youth, when refrigerated transportation was but a glint in Nikola Tesla's eye? Would Mother N. even bother to open the cans? Would she refuse to stir herself with the whole key-twisting business and just pelt us with unopened tins of Dubuque's Pride? I expect the insurance johnnies to have their pencils well sharpened. This could make golfball-sized hail look like hail-sized golfballs.<br /><br />At any rate, I'm sure there's some outstanding poetry to be wrought out of even this impending natural disaster:<br /><br />A-rumty-tumty ram-a-Tam <i>(Gam? Flam? Ma'am? Work on this later.)</i><br />I do not like strong winds and ham<br />A-tumpty-tumpty sharks with hair,<br />A-tumpty-tumpty legionnaire...<br /><br />The rest of the poem is left as an exercise for the student. Me, I'm off to herd the swine into the barn before the conflagration. Can you <i>imagine</i>&nbsp;their moral indignation? "It's raining...<i>US!"</i>http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2013/07/strong-winds-and-accompanying-bother.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-3885608601512505820Tue, 02 Jul 2013 18:50:00 +00002013-07-02T14:55:26.170-04:00Sarah A. Long Virts, 1832-1925<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VO9QYCoFH1I/UdMRsKMJryI/AAAAAAAAAzI/dLGAaOnrmyU/s220/Sara_Virts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VO9QYCoFH1I/UdMRsKMJryI/AAAAAAAAAzI/dLGAaOnrmyU/s220/Sara_Virts.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>That little honey up there, that's <a href="http://www.virtsfamilies.com/getperson.php?personID=I73&amp;tree=tree1">Sarah A. (Long) Virts</a>, who owned my land and home from 1874 until her death in 1925. Born in 1832, she was 91 when she passed. Six kids. Must have been a tough old bird.<br /><br />I have no idea, of course, if she actually <i>lived</i>&nbsp;here; for all I know, this modest&nbsp;(then)&nbsp;one-room cabin was rented out to hired help on the local farms. But I do believe that it was she (and, no doubt, her husband, <a href="http://www.virtsfamilies.com/getperson.php?personID=I39&amp;tree=tree1">Joseph Lewis Virts</a>, whom she married in October of 1859) who had the cabin disassembled from its original site down the hill by the dried-up stream, and placed here, 50 yards uphill, on a modern foundation. (Modern, that is, for the late 1800s. Still doing its job admirably, though.) Perhaps at that point, they began to build out from the back, which addition would eventually evolve into Stately Jingo Manor.<br /><br />How she came by the place in 1874 is a bit of a mystery, yet to be untangled. The deed, on record at the Leesburg Courthouse, shows several couples (in-laws?), none of whose names ring any bells yet, selling her the place. It was some 25 acres then, which she subdivided and sold half of later. The plot she kept was 12 acres, which was in the 1940s subdivided again, giving us the 8 acres we now infest.<br /><br />I want to call your particular attention to the date that Sarah and Joseph tied the nuptial knot: October 8, 1859. Can you name a time and place <i>less auspicious&nbsp;</i>to start a life of wedded bliss? Eight days after the Blessed Event, John Brown commenced his antics at Harpers Ferry, a mile and a half upstream from us. I have to imagine Joseph and Sarah, perhaps dewy with amorous sweat after a vigorous honeymoon boffing, sitting and cooling themselves on the front porch on October 16 of that year. Along down the road comes perhaps a tinker, or a passing drummer: "Have you folks heard about what's going on up at the Ferry? Some blessed lunatic has holed himself up in the Armory, hostages and all! What's this world coming to? At any rate, I hear the Federals are on their way up there, soon have the situation under control..."<br /><br /><i>Under control, indeed....</i> Two of Sarah's children, Susan Alverda and Rosa Althea (such aromatic names!) were born August 1861 and [no month given] 1863, respectively. <br /><br />They say that the cannonfire of Sharpsburg was clearly audible here. Gettysburg too, if not so clearly -- probably more like distant thunder.<br /><br />Helluva time to start raising kids.<br /><br /><i><b>Pee Ess:</b> You Loudoun locals: You can do worse than spend a leisurely moment with the <a href="http://logis.loudoun.gov/archive/">Loudoun Aerial Archive. </a>Aerial photos of your very own dear old homestead (or the cornfield where it would be built) from 1937. Don't say I never told you anything useful.</i>http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2013/07/sarah-long-virts-1832-1925.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-2287882478296291311Tue, 02 Jul 2013 16:43:00 +00002013-07-02T12:43:05.591-04:00Nature ReportJeeze, I need to get that horrifying last post down the page... If I go under a bus in the next few years, I'll be remembered as the Guy Who Bitched about Bugs in 2012, No Matter How Justified the Bitching Was.* Can't have that, no sir, no sir....<br /><br />The family of deer who visit the downhill lawn daily to snack upon the milkweed and thistles that I've cultivated for their delectation have managed to whelp this year. Just this morning, two fawns, about the size of terriers, cute little white spots freckling their backs, cavorted. The thought balloons over their heads read, "Holy shit, I'm a deer! Woah! Check it out! I'm a deer! Watch this! (Boing, boing, boing) Betcha never saw that before! (Boing) Wow, it's so <i>cool</i>&nbsp;being a deer! How great is <i>this!"</i><br /><br />The buck we call Missing, Presumed Dad, has grown himself a fairly impressive set of hatracks on his coconut. Sure, they're still fuzzy and juvenile-looking, but they're harbingers of the time, not far off, when he'll be yclept King of the Forest, to all but his harem, who already know him as Old Too-Tired-to-Get-It-Up. They're an iconoclastic bunch, that harem. Watch out for 'em. Be burning their bras next thing you know.<br /><br />Funny thing about ol' Missing, though, is that maybe three years ago, he himself was one of those little terriers. The Great Circle of Life rolls on. He don't say nothin', which clearly implies he must know somethin'.<br /><br />In other news, Freddie and I had a whee of a time the other night when Mr. Rat Snake (you may remember, <a href="http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2009/04/say-hello-to-my-little-friend.html">this guy</a>) showed up in the screened porch, trying to get at the Eastern Phoebe babies nesting in the windchimes on the unscreened porch (the evil old dumbass). I poked at him with an old cane I keep around for the purpose, and he gave a fine display of a rat snake trying to get the hell out of whatever he'd gotten himself into.<br /><br />This prompted Freddie to ask, How do snakes actually <i>move</i>, anyway? That wiggling, multi-s-shaped performance they put on just doesn't seem to be a very efficient means of locomotion. I thought for a bit, and realized that nothing in my vast experience could answer that burning question, so we hit Google (also with an old cane I keep around for the purpose).<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CchyctRFrQ">The answer may surprise you.</a> Sure did me. I thought it was just God's will.<br /><br />What's even more surprising is that we've known this for approximately 0.15 seconds of human history. I guess there just isn't a whole lot of grant money lying around to study herpetological boogieing.<br /><br />_____<br />* But it would make a fairly memorable tombstone, I do confess it.**<br /><br />_____<br />** Epitaph: He Really Didn't Like Stinkbugs Very Much, and We'll Miss Him For It.http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2013/07/nature-report.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-2226905097337608094Tue, 09 Oct 2012 17:05:00 +00002012-10-09T13:26:11.781-04:00So You Want to Know About Stinkbugs, Eh?WARNING: REALLY REALLY GROSS PHOTOS AHEAD!!<br /><br />Yesterday I was driving down Mountain Road taking Betty to drop her off at Union Station on her way &nbsp;back to school. It was one of the first quite cold days of the fall, and I had taken my winter coat out of the closet for the first time since last spring.<br /><br />A few miles out, I felt something crawling on my neck. Yep. Stinkbug.<br /><br />Disgusted, I threw it out the car window and kept driving. Then there was another, on my sleeve. And another. And another. I stopped the car to shake out the coat. In all, seven of the loathsome things had infested the coat.<br /><br />Three years ago, we had the Nightmare October from Hell. That was when these things first arrived in serious numbers. I couldn't convince anybody how horrible it was; anything I said sounded like hyperbole. <i>"Thousands </i>of the horrible things!" sounds like I'm exaggerating wildly -- especially to my suburban acquaintances, who freak out and post on Facebook that they'd seen&nbsp;<i>three</i>&nbsp;of the them in their garage. "Ewww!" everybody responds. Oh, if they only knew!<br /><br />Let me tell you about the Nightmare October of 2009. When we came in or out the front door, we had to scurry to get the door closed as thirty uninvited guests attempted to piggyback in with us. When they did get in -- and they did, by the hundreds -- their natural instinct is to insert themselves into crevices in the house -- sock drawers, rollup curtains, door frames. We learned to cook with a grease-mesh over any open pot -- and they <i>still&nbsp;</i>got into our food. We threw away an entire casserole when Freddie found one in his serving. (It was OK; we'd all pretty much lost our appetites anyway.)<br /><br />Exterminators were no help. Nothing they had would kill the goddamned things. Also, because they are an invasive species from China, they have no natural predators here.&nbsp;The exterminator advised us to suck them up with the vacuum cleaner every day. We might as well have used an accordion.<br /><br />This kind of thing <i>will </i>&nbsp;do a number on your psyche. I was unemployed at the time, depressed and miserable. Sitting in our upstairs bathroom one day, one of the warmest rooms in the house and thus especially attractive to the monsters, I listened to the buzz-thump of several stinkbugs banging away at the window behind me (they are huge, and very, very stupid), and came damned close to just taking the pipe then and there.<br /><br />Well, we lived through that. I got a job soon after and things brightened up. The bugs died back and we got on with our winter.<br /><br />The next year, 2010, wasn't too bad. For some reason the bugs didn't swarm as badly as they had the year before, and it was at least tolerable.<br /><br />The year after that, Southern States started to advertise a product that would finally kill the bugs. I bought a lifetime supply, sprayed, and miracle of miracles, the stuff worked as advertised. They died in the thousands. Life was good. (And if you <i>dare</i>&nbsp;to ding me about environmental damage, I'll just answer this: <i>I. Don't. Give. A. Fuck. </i>Take a look at the photos I'm about to present, and then get back to me about the Chesapeake Bay. If a few bees and spiders had to take one for the team, sorry about that.)<br /><br />So this year, the little fuckers started their swarming again, nearly as badly as 2009, and a couple of weeks ago I sprayed again. Again, they died by the thousands. Yay, us.<br /><br />So now I've got lots of dead stinkbugs to sweep up. Better problem than before, at any rate. This morning I swept the screened porch. (It needed it anyway.) I wound up with quite a pile of corpses on the floor. Please bear in mind, as you horripilate at this picture, that this is the <i>interior</i>&nbsp;of a screened porch, the entire purpose of which is to keep out insects. Usually, it does an excellent job. Mr. Stinkbug is very, very good at defeating conventional design.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-35WIBVALbCA/UHRWO0LoIfI/AAAAAAAAAx4/puAY4WzfNSo/s1600/stinkbug1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-35WIBVALbCA/UHRWO0LoIfI/AAAAAAAAAx4/puAY4WzfNSo/s1600/stinkbug1.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">(Sorry about the lousy quality of the pic; I shouldn't have trusted a phone camera.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Meanwhile, Wonder Woman used the Mason-jar-of-soapy-water method of killing the bugs that had gotten in past the insecticide. Her fingers smelled horrible for days:</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oIlfx2OQvDc/UHRWPpIoanI/AAAAAAAAAyA/VkOlaA1GOtc/s1600/stinkbug2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oIlfx2OQvDc/UHRWPpIoanI/AAAAAAAAAyA/VkOlaA1GOtc/s1600/stinkbug2.jpg" /></a></div><br />So yeah. Stinkbugs. Die, you miserable bastards, <i>die!</i>http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2012/10/so-you-want-to-know-about-stinkbugs-eh_9.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-4372937569266222330Mon, 30 Jul 2012 09:13:00 +00002012-07-30T06:48:25.652-04:00Fled to the Mountains for SafetyAs I have written before, my home occupies a rather unusual place in American historical geography. Although without doubt on the Southern side of the Potomac, in an unambiguously Confederate state, it was not, during the Recent Unpleasantness the Sesquicentennial of which we are now observing, Southern in any real sense.<br /><br />One of the most telling insights I've garnered since moving out here is the fact that the caprice of history can deal out some really unfair but unavoidable realities. In about the spring of 1861, if you just happened to live where I do now, in northern Loudoun County, it was actually quite unlikely that you had any slaves, that you felt particularly strongly about secession over that Peculiar Institution, or that you wanted to have your own personal blood spilled fighting for what likely appeared to you to be a Very Bad Idea indeed.<br /><br />And yet, one day, because you happened to live on <i>this</i>&nbsp;side of a river and not on <i>that</i>&nbsp;side, you suddenly found yourself forced to declare yourself loyal to this brand new Very Bad Idea -- and if you refused to so declare, you were newly minted a <i>traitor</i> to a cause in which you didn't necessarily believe. And you were treated just so.<br /><br />I'd like to try to peel this onion a little bit, because I think it's very important even now. I'm quite convinced that that Very Bad Idea hasn't been entirely -- or even partly -- snuffed out yet, even 150 years down the road, and I feel a real kinship with the unfortunates who through accident of geography found themselves on the wrong side.<br /><br />Let's try this idea on for size: The part of Loudoun County I now infest raised two militias to fight in the Civil War. One was E. V. White's 35th Virginia Cavalry, a Confederate brigade with a gallant and proud record. They were the first Confederate unit to enter Gettysburg in the summer of 1863, and (I don't vouch for this; it's just local legend) it is said that their nickname, the Comanches, gave rise to the war-whoop that became the Rebel Yell.<br /><br />The other unit raised here was the Loudoun Rangers, which commander Samuel Means offered to the Union. It was one of the only militias in the entire eastern Civil War theater raised on Southern soil to fight for the Union side.<br /><br />I just can't overstate this: these two militias were raised <i>from exactly the same populaces. </i>&nbsp;Members of <i>exactly the same families&nbsp;</i>fought on one side or the other.<br /><br />I gas on about this now because a book I find very important indeed was published last year, and I have been reveling in it since I first acquired a copy last fall. Written by two Quaker-descended Waterford historians, Taylor Chamberlin and John Souders, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Between-Reb-Yank-Northern-Virginia/dp/0786459247/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1343636306&amp;sr=8-1&amp;keywords=between+reb+and+yank">Between Reb and Yank: A Civil War History of Northern Loudoun County</a></i>&nbsp;tells the story the in-between folks caught on <i>this</i>&nbsp;side of that horribly arbitrary boundary created by Secession.<br /><br />Now, obviously I can't tell the whole story in one blog-post -- Chamberlin and Souders take a mere 400 or so pages of closely set, two-column text to do it justice -- but I can offer up a few morsels.<br /><br />I live on the eastern slope of Short Hill Mountain, at its northern end. If you strike out directly uphill from my back yard, after about 45 minutes' worth of hard slog you will crest the hill at Buzzard Rock to find a thoroughly rewarding view of Harpers Ferry. A few hundred yards south of that spot, the old Ebenezer Church road comes up and over at what is now the service road for a radio tower. I've written about this spot quite a few times, <a href="http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2008/01/big-view.html">I think most memorably in this post.</a><br /><br />Well, let's see if this passage doesn't give some of the flavor of what I'm talking about. The time is the fall of 1862. Sharpsburg -- some 7 miles north of here as the crow flies -- has only a couple of weeks before been written into out national memory. The Union Army is probing into Virginia. Lincoln is beside himself with fury at McClellan for his hesitancy in so doing. The Confederate government, meanwhile, has instituted mandatory conscription, which.... Well. Let the story tell itself:<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">A more modest Union sortie into north Loudoun brought relatively better results. On 4 October Lt. Wesley McGregor of the 78th New York Infantry set off from Loudoun Heights with a squad of 20 hand-picked men to scour the valley between the Blue Ridge and Short Hill. The "reconnaissance" got off to a bad start when a "squad of Rebel cavalry" seized four of McGregor's soldiers as they approached Neersville.... The following day McGregor led 18 men on a trail across Short Hill [!!!] to capture a Rebel soldier thought to be hiding on the mountain's east side. As they passed the crest, the Yankees were surprised to find a group of 30 civilians who had "fled to the mountains for safety" after failing to report to the conscription officer at Snickersville. Squads of White's cavalry were said to be looking for them.</blockquote>Have I made my point? Thirty guys, camped out up there so they wouldn't be found by the 35th and forced to join their glorious ranks. I imagine not a single one of them gave a rat's about the Big Issues at stake; they had mouths to feed and trade to husband and crops to tend. They'd just been getting word of the horrifically arbitrary mangling of human flesh that had just taken place a few days before just a few miles north -- the cannon-fire of Antietam would have been clearly audible, and quite possibly the wind brought the rotting death-stench wafting in on their farm and smithies and mills.<br /><br />Would <i>you</i>&nbsp;have run joyfully off to the conscription officer in Snickersville to join that horror?<br /><br />I know where I'd have been.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WD4qJyLlnNg/UBZP5iYbX_I/AAAAAAAAAxU/aHFg8J0QLoA/s1600/BradyAntietam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WD4qJyLlnNg/UBZP5iYbX_I/AAAAAAAAAxU/aHFg8J0QLoA/s320/BradyAntietam.jpg" width="425" /></a></div><br />http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2012/07/fled-to-mountains-for-safety.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-666204259364251682Sun, 22 Jul 2012 13:12:00 +00002012-07-22T09:12:49.824-04:00Alexander Cockburn, RIPIn <a href="http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2005/01/see-this-is-what-im-talking-about.html">very nearly the first post I ever wrote</a> on this blog, I mentioned my admiration for an observation made by the muckraking (and frequently very funny) journalist Alexander Cockburn.<br /><br />It is now with heavy heart that I learn that Cockburn has joined the Choir Invisible at the age of 71. Well, we're all headed that way, but it's a sad thing to know that the guy who made the wisest, most insightful observation about human history that I've ever read (see link above) has himself passed on into the past that he was so insightful about.<br /><br />Yes, he was cranky and unpredictable. His views on global warming, for example, could evince an impatient syllable or two. And the Ralph Nader thing... Ugh. But that very crankiness was exactly what made you anticipate his columns in <i>The Nation</i>&nbsp;or <i>The Village Voice. </i>Go ahead, Andrew, you'd say, make me uncomfortable. I can take it.<br /><br />Jeffrey St. Clair, Cockburn's partner at the Counterpunch website, has written <a href="http://www.counterpunch.org/2012/07/21/farewell-alex-my-friend/">a short eulogy</a> that's worth reading:<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 21px;">Alex lived a huge life and he lived it his way. He hated compromise in politics and he didn’t tolerate it in his own life. Alex was my pal, my mentor, my comrade. We joked, gossiped, argued and worked together nearly every day for the last twenty years. He leaves a huge void in our lives. But he taught at least two generations how to think, how to look at the world, how to live a life of joyful and creative resistance. So, the struggle continues and we’re going to remain engaged. He wouldn’t have it any other way.</span></blockquote><br />How to think... how to look at the world.... I think that's just about exactly right. I, for one, will miss him.http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2012/07/alexander-cockburn-rip.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-5209760817342901781Tue, 17 Jul 2012 19:02:00 +00002012-07-17T15:02:20.522-04:00Endless Self-ReinventionIf ever I manage to delude myself into thinking I've written a sure-fire Number-One-with-a-Bullet country song, and that the next step is to record it and release it to a slavering world, I will do it under the stage-name that I just invented:<br /><br />Gulfstream Walters.<br /><br /><span style="background-color: white;">"That Gulfstream, he sure could write a tearjerker, couldn't he. Right up there with Willie Nelson and Ernest Tubb, that boy. Remember his 'She Stopped Loving Him Before She Even Met Him'?"&nbsp;</span><br /><br />Walters. Gulfstream Walters. An American original. Him and that licorice hat. Classic.http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2012/07/endless-self-reinvention.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-6573026685664888106Sun, 15 Jul 2012 18:31:00 +00002012-07-15T15:28:25.619-04:00What Passed for PornMy perusals of Modern Literature have led me to a book of short stories by George MacDonald Fraser (he of Flashman fame) called <i>McAuslan in the Rough</i>. These are semi-autobiographical stories of Frasier's time in the Highland Regiment in the Middle East just after the end of World War II, centered on a spectacularly incompetent subordinate of the narrator's, a lump of gristle and pocket-lint named Private McAuslan. The stories are very funny and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Complete-McAuslan-George-MacDonald-Fraser/dp/1602396566/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1342357530&amp;sr=8-1&amp;keywords=macdonald+fraser+mcauslan">well worth seeking out.</a><br /><br />In the story "General Knowledge, Private Information," the regimental brass take it into their heads that a homemade quiz show would be just the thing to boost morale and entertain extremely bored troops stuck in the desert. The topic of subject-matter for such a quiz comes up, and the Colonel speaks:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">"So just keep your digestions regular, no late hours, and perhaps brush up with...well, with some of those general knowledge questions in the <i>Sunday Post.</i>&nbsp;I don't doubt the education officer will draw heavily on those. Anyway, they'll get you into the feel of the thing. Apart from that — any suggestions?"</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">The Adjutant said he had a copy of <i>Whitaker's Almanac</i>&nbsp;in the office, if that was any use.</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">"Excellent," said the Colonel. "That's the sort of practical approach we need. Very good, Michael. No doubt there's some valuable stuff in the battalion library, too." (I knew of nothing, personally, unless one hoped to study social criminology through the medium of <i>No Orchids for Miss Blandish</i>&nbsp;or <i>Slay-Ride for Cutie.)</i></blockquote>This last title caused my spine to stiffen and my pupils to dilate, much as if a house-cat had detected a whiff of mouse in the air. I may even have switched my tail a few times, I don't know. What is this <i>Slay-Ride for Cutie </i>thing? That sounds far too familiar to be left alone....<br /><br />We have, of course, a current rock band named Death-Cab for Cutie, which us Beatle <i>cognoscienti</i>&nbsp;know to be named for a song performed by the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band in "Magical Mystery Tour." As far as we think we know, the phrase was just psychedelic nonsense dreamed up by Neil Innes or Viv Stanshall. But now...<i>this...this thing! Hold on a minute!</i><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mPRtYWrr5ss/UAMHOnhR5rI/AAAAAAAAAw8/rOvF9GifN_k/s1600/slay-ride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mPRtYWrr5ss/UAMHOnhR5rI/AAAAAAAAAw8/rOvF9GifN_k/s320/slay-ride.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />It turns out this <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hank_Janson">Hank Janson</a> bird, whose books seem to have commanded one shilling and sixpence in the 50's in Britain (and a bargain at twice the price, if you ask me), was a sort of Mickey Spillane <i>manqué, </i>author of hundreds of these penny dreadfuls. There was, of course, no one person named Hank Janson; instead, there was a stable of extremely poorly paid hacks pooching this stuff out by the barrelful.<i>&nbsp;</i>One imagines these books weren't exactly freely available at your usual respectable lending library, and it's equally easy to picture them as, er, food for the intellect at a remote military outpost <i>circa&nbsp;</i>1951.<br /><br />To the young Beatles and Bonzos, of course, this is what passed for porn.<br /><br />Here is the <i>Magical Mystery Tour </i>&nbsp;scene in which "Death Cab for Cutie" appears. Watching it now, with knowledge of the origins of "Slay-Ride," doesn't it aaaaaaall just come together? (Shoot me!)<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/B9y4vLrHsm4" width="420"></iframe><br /><br />And with that, I'm taking Cutie upstairs for some enlivening conversation and perhaps a touch of slap and tickle...<br /><br />http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2012/07/what-passed-for-porn.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-8856752367243929677Sun, 15 Jul 2012 02:51:00 +00002012-07-15T07:02:22.567-04:00Goddammit!So two years take me through depression, sadness, the whole nine yards.<br /><br />I couldn't post to save my life.<br /><br />Every time I tried to post, I got side-tracked by the very thing that got me depressed in the first place.<br /><br />Well, guess what -- FUCK THAT THING!<br /><br />I hate that thing, and I wish it gone. That thing was doing me no good. Now (I hope) it is gone.<br /><br />I desperately hope that the silly adult-entertainment foolishness that I last posted will descend down the posting list, to be replaced by this link &nbsp;to <a href="http://realloudoun.com/">RealLoudoun,</a> which deserves much more of my attention than my depressed ass merits.<br /><br />This guy is the Real Megillah. While I (at least until I got depressed) make fun of the Loudoun County Board of Supervisors, RealLoudoun (whoever he may be) pulls no punches and afflicts the comfortable.<br /><br />I only wish he would allow comments. He'd get some positive ones from me.http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2012/07/goddammit.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-2340037436496112638Sun, 05 Sep 2010 18:40:00 +00002010-09-05T15:00:33.794-04:00Enquiring Minds Want to KnowI would like to propose a small <span style="font-style: italic;">gedankenexperiment...</span><br /><br />Suppose a gentleman were to return home from work unexpectedly one day to find his wife in the arms of another woman. No, not the <span style="font-style: italic;">arms,</span> exactly. Let us say the wife is presenting to her lover in the ventro-dorsal position. The Other Woman is preparing to to employ a somewhat intimidatingly large strapon dildo, and is about to get down to brass tacks, but no penetration has yet taken place.<br /><br />Let us further postulate that the Other Woman's affect -- tattoos, perhaps, or a beer gut, or a patch-laden leather vest unremoved from her person -- suggest that she may have some involvement with motorcycle culture. Or, hell -- let's say the strapon is embossed with the logo of the Harley-Davidson corporation.<br /><br />Then let us further hypothesize that the gentleman, perhaps understandably enraged at the sight, pulls from a hidden shoulder-holster a revolver, which he points at the interloper's head as he demands that she desist from this activity or she will find herself headless.<br /><br />Can it be said, then, that the man has threatened to <span style="font-style: italic;">waste vagina-mountin' mama?</span><br /><br />These and other, similar thoughts occupy the mind these days....http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2010/09/enquiring-minds-want-to-know.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-7199036761473591916Thu, 26 Aug 2010 19:56:00 +00002010-08-26T16:03:16.661-04:00Who Do You Call?Saw this on the Clara Barton this morning. Luckily we were stopped at a light, and I was able to get a shot:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_f6OnMYlBNIU/THbHCRwQmUI/AAAAAAAAAuw/RuTKhVqRYSM/s1600/HymanRestoration.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 218px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_f6OnMYlBNIU/THbHCRwQmUI/AAAAAAAAAuw/RuTKhVqRYSM/s400/HymanRestoration.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509810036073863490" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://rahyman.com/">They really do exist. </a><br /><br />Their website touts their expertise at "Structural Damage Caused by Vehicles" and "Structural Damage Caused by Fallen Trees," and the conclusion I must reluctantly draw is that those things are way more vulnerable than I thought.http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2010/08/who-do-you-call.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-1513062009401014989Thu, 19 Aug 2010 18:56:00 +00002010-08-19T15:01:17.510-04:00Enlivening Life with SongDaily, I drive through the lovely little hamlet of Paeonian Springs, Va.<br /><br />Rarely does this brief visit fail to set off in the Jingo cranium the little ditty that I once penned as a sort of Town Anthem. It's a waltz-time thing, goes something like this:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Paeonian Springs,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Paeonian Springs,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You can poop where you want, but...</span><br />(fermata)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Paeonian Springs!</span><br /><br />You're welcome, Paeonian Springs! You're cute!http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2010/08/enlivening-life-with-song.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-2708501649613349491Tue, 17 Aug 2010 19:03:00 +00002010-08-17T15:58:17.987-04:00Why Facebook Holds Little FascinationAt first, it was kind of cool to be put back into contact with people I hadn't thought about for thirty years.<br /><br />The problem is, of course, that times change, circumstances change, and people that you're arbitrarily thrown together with in high school -- people the sixteen-year-old you thought you knew -- they change too.<br /><br />If I say you're a friend on Facebook, it's because I consider you a friend. Or at least a nodding acquaintance, right? Somebody I've shared some experiences with. A friend, you would think, would be the sort of person who'd be at least somewhat open to input from me.<br /><br />So when a high-school acquaintance -- not really a friend; we didn't really move in the same circles -- forwarded me a truly loathsome bit of racist cant, expecting me to giggle and forward it on to all my right-thinking friends -- this after I asked him last year please not to forward any more 9-12/Glenn Beck/Birther sludge to me, so I thought he understood my stance on these matters -- I gave him some friendly input, in the form of an email repeating my request not to send me such things. (That, at least, was the gist of what I said. There may have been some slightly intemperate language, but this sort of thing, well, pisses me off real bad.)<br /><br />(I'm not linking to the disgusting thing that angered me, but google "Larmondo 'Flair' Allen" if you're curious.)<br /><br />His response to me this morning was (and this is a verbatim copy-and-paste, the entire body of the email) "your [sic] a sad little man."<br /><br />At my riposte begging to be taken off his distro list, he replied "If you feel that calling me a racist helps you sleep at night, you go on ahead. The world will keep on turning without either one of us..."<br /><br />No, dude, it's not really got much to do with me sleeping at night, or the globe's continued rotation. It's more that what you sent me was <span style="font-style: italic;">real fuckin' racist,</span> and if you can't see that, well, if the shoe fits...<br /><br />So that's why I don't haunt Facebook very much. People can really suck at the whole humanity thing.<br /><br />(If you haven't recently sent me any vile racist sludge, then we're still cool on Facebook. Simple as that.)http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2010/08/why-facebook-holds-little-fascination.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-6162218491576999044Thu, 12 Aug 2010 14:46:00 +00002010-08-12T12:28:43.660-04:00Rogers & Hart: What Were They Smoking?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_f6OnMYlBNIU/TGQbwpwpBcI/AAAAAAAAAug/n_qthkZyjgc/s1600/PalJoey.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 389px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_f6OnMYlBNIU/TGQbwpwpBcI/AAAAAAAAAug/n_qthkZyjgc/s400/PalJoey.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504555167211128258" border="0" /></a><br />All right, let's see, here.... She gets too hungry for dinner at eight. Check. She likes the theater, and never comes late, good for her. She'd never bother with people she'd hate. Well, who <span style="font-style: italic;">would?</span><br /><br />What the hell about any of the foregoing means that the lady is a tramp?<br /><br />Doesn't like crap games with barons or earls. Disciplined of her, I'll grant -- and, frankly, some of the worst cheaters at dice I know of are of the noble caste. Won't go to Harlem in ermine and pearls -- so she might be either cheap or a racist or perhaps just careful. Won't dish the dirt with the rest of the girls. Not a gossip -- admirable, I suppose.<br /><br />OK, she possesses these traits, some good, some less so; I still fail utterly to understand why their display draws one to the conclusion that the lady is a tramp.<br /><br />She likes the free, fresh wind in her hair -- who doesn't? Life without care -- nice work if you can get it, I suppose. She's broke, but it's oke -- I don't know what the hell this even means. Hates California; it's cold and it's damp -- well, the bits north of San Luis Obispo or so can be accused of this, but it seems an awfully broad brush to paint our most populous state with.<br /><br />Is it possible that we're working with some meaning of the word "tramp" that I'm unaware of? Mr. Webster gives us two possible definitions that might apply -- the lady is either a homeless person or she's a slut. Or a homeless slut, I suppose. A homeless slut whose admiration of the theater is matched only by her laudable punctuality. Might explain the avoidance of Harlem in ermine and pearls -- most vagrant strumpets of my acquaintance lack these fripperies in their wardrobes.<br /><br />Could "she" be a <span style="font-style: italic;">tramp steamer?</span> Seagoing vessels are often referred to using the female gender.... A tramp steamer that likes the free, fresh wind in her hair? That dislikes northern California's capricious weather? That refrains from tittle-tattle with others of her sex? That shuns gambling with European nobility?<br /><br />I'm going with that. I've never known an itinerant cargo-vessel that was late to a play.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">She weighs her anchor in old Frisco Bay</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Picks up some rebar in far Mandalay</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">She runs on diesel -- the old-fashioned way</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />That's why the lady is a tramp</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Steamer.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />She likes the fresh sea breeze in her masts</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Steam-whistle blasts</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />'Neath her keel</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Is an eel</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">At night she displays a nautical lamp</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />That's why the lady is a tramp</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Steamer!</span>http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2010/08/rogers-hart-what-were-they-smoking.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-4701353780799682275Tue, 10 Aug 2010 16:12:00 +00002010-08-10T16:40:16.147-04:00California, 2010 (2 -- Home Again)<span style="font-weight: bold;">An Tableau Illustrating Something of the British National Character</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Scene: in line at the ticket booth for the Powell-Mason Line Cable Trolley in San Francisco)</span><br /><br />British Man #1, two places ahead of us, at the window: But this is <span style="font-style: italic;">disgraceful!</span><br /><br />British Man #2, directly behind us in line and unacquainted with BM#1: Oh, God, no....<br /><br />BM#1: Why the bloody hell can't I pay with a credit card?<br /><br />BM#2: Oh, nooooo... Don't.... Please, please <span style="font-style: italic;">don't....</span><br /><br />BM#1: You know, <span style="font-style: italic;">we</span> know how to do these things at home! We'd work it out so <span style="font-style: italic;">anybody</span> could pay with a credit card! We're more <span style="font-style: italic;">civilized </span> that way!<br /><br />BM#2: Oh dear God, how embarrassing...<br /><br />BM#1 [contemptuously shoveling bills through the window]: Right, here's your bloody cash....<br /><br />BM#2: OhGodOhGodOhGod....<br /><br />Me [to BM#2]: It's OK -- I've seen my own countrymen do far worse away from home...<br /><br />BM#2: Yes, but we're supposed to be <span style="font-style: italic;">better!</span><br /><br />------<br /><br />I realize that my last post, written in Los Angeles on our last day there, was a bit venomous, but the place angered me. Outside of (perhaps) Manhattan, I've never seen a place that draws such a blindingly clear line between those who Have and those who Do Not. On our first day in Calabasas, we went for a little exploratory drive. I observed that the surrounding hilltops had some lovely houses on them, houses that must have had a lovely commanding view of the valley. I proposed we meander into those neighborhoods to see what the view was like.<br /><br />Not so fast, there, stranger. Gates. Guards. Lines of tradesmens' and gardeners' trucks awaiting the blessing of some pampered hausfrau to gain access. <span style="font-style: italic;">I worked hard so that me and mine could live on this hilltop, chum, and if you think I'm going to allow just any old riffraff to come and gawk at my stuff, you've got another think coming....</span><br /><br />I did not gain favor with Betty by revisiting with her the plot of Poe's "The Masque of the Red Death."<br /><br />------<br /><br />Things were not helped when, later in the day, an officious biddy on a public thoroughfare informed me that smoking had been prohibited throughout the town of Calabasas, and that she was going to inform on me to the nearest gendarme if I did not immediately desist from polluting her airspace.<br /><br />She was easily thirty yards away from me as she performed her righteous civic duty.<br /><br />-----<br /><br />Oh, and those little microscopic dogs in handbags?<br /><br />Need I say more?<br /><br />-----<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_f6OnMYlBNIU/TGGs1AP0zcI/AAAAAAAAAuY/kFX4stLTl3Q/s1600/HearstCastle.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_f6OnMYlBNIU/TGGs1AP0zcI/AAAAAAAAAuY/kFX4stLTl3Q/s400/HearstCastle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503870246222876098" border="0" /></a><br />If you are able (as I was not) to suppress thoughts of the <a href="http://iml.jou.ufl.edu/projects/spring04/vance/yellowjournalism.html">world-historical nastiness</a> that was the professional life of William Randolph Hearst, I suppose Hearst Castle at San Simeon would be an interesting place. As it was, I could not allay the memory of an old Zippy the Pinhead cartoon that takes place at San Simeon: Looking at these impossibly, grotesquely opulent surroundings, Zippy observes, "Nice grandeur!"<br /><br />That's more or less the phrase that kept going through my head too.<br /><br />On the other hand, it might have been sort of fun to play tennis up there with Charlie Chaplin and Mary Pickford.<br /><br />------<br /><br />The Pacific Coast Highway did a lot to clear the venom of LA from my brain. That's one mighty pretty stretch of road. I'd like to do it on a motorbike sometime, south to north.<br /><br />Without brakes.<br /><br />------<br /><br />San Francisco, conversely, plainly did not give a rat's vagina if I lit up three simultaneous Luckies on the corner of Lombard and Van Ness. I can personally attest to the veracity of this assertion; each morning before breakfast, I walked to that well-trafficked corner, tore open a fresh pack, and stuffed three into my gob and lit them all. Not a rat's vagina was to be seen.<br /><br />------<br /><br />I can now confidently say, without fear of cavil, that I have a profound desire never to see Haight-Ashbury again.<br /><br />Enough on that.<br /><br />------<br /><br />I trusted the waiter and went with the <span style="font-style: italic;">osso buco</span> at Firenze by Night.<br /><br />Best decision I ever made.<br /><br />------<br /><br />In an otherwise flawless execution of trip-planning (the lion's share of which is directly attributable to Wonder Woman's tireless research), I made only one silly mistake; to wit, in booking the return flight, I found a reasonably priced Virgin America flight that departed SFO at 10:05 and arrived at Dulles at 6:10. Perfect!<br /><br />There was only one thing wrong with that booking. I neglected to pay attention to <span style="font-style: italic;">one little detail</span> -- the AMs and PMs that follow the posted times. Yes, I had put us on a redeye flight arriving at 6:10 <span style="font-style: italic;">in the morning.</span><br /><br />Oh, go ahead and laugh. It will be as water off a duck's back compared to the bollocking I received from young Betty, who had to endure the flight.<br /><br />------<br /><br />I suppose I will recover from the jet-lag at some point soon. Some recommend aspirin, others epsom salts. Me, I'm thinking a few jolts of Boone's Farm chased with some crushed glass.http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2010/08/california-2010-2-home-again.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-1436531291342591144Mon, 02 Aug 2010 23:39:00 +00002010-08-03T01:00:44.304-04:00California, 2010 (1)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_f6OnMYlBNIU/TFdXZFMA-CI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/_SN-phAoO_U/s1600/Munters.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 319px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_f6OnMYlBNIU/TFdXZFMA-CI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/_SN-phAoO_U/s400/Munters.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500961558257268770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >See that? These Californians have a place for everything! A whole box full of 'em!</span><br /><br />I had once -- like, a week ago -- idealistically thought that I'd be able to sit down in some comfortable space and record each day of this trip as it happened. However, events have intervened, and the admixture of the warm (and spectacularly free of humidity) California sun and a frosty beverage at about 5PM have introduced a certain lassitude that I can't but ascribe to the local culture.<br /><br />Some highlights from the last few days:<br /><br />Disneyland seriously needs to go fuck itself. Betty was disillusioned by her experience, but this was the reaction of an eighteen-year-old being confronted by the expectations of her own ten-year-old self. The rides were inferior to those available at your local Six Flags, where the lines are shorter and the thrills far better. The rest of it was relentless merch-flogging. Fuck you, Walt Disney. Betty sees through you.<br /><br />At Disneyland, the Animatronic Abraham Lincoln, in summarizing the Civil War, managed to avoid the following subjects:<br /><ul><li>What the war was about</li><li>Who won the goddamned war; and<br /></li><li>Anything having to do with the aftermath of the war, including Jim Crow laws, lynchings, or Bombingham.<br /></li></ul>But boy howdy did we all leave the theater with a good feeling about America!<br /><br />The experience of belonging to a studio audience for the taping of a dreadful sitcom is quite remarkable. They need you to be upbeat, so they are quite relentless in their enforcement of (what Frank Zappa called) "compulsory entertainment." The tame comedian who runs the show leaves one wishing that assault laws weren't quite so strict around here. One leaves the studio feeling quite raped, actually.<br /><br />According to the papers I signed, I'm not allowed to tell the exact name, or even the production company we were allowed to see, but let's see if my expert Internet-Search-avoidance skills obtain: The show we were forbidden from mentioning was Schmelissa-and-Schmoey, on the Schmay-Bee-Smee Schmaly Schmetwork... Does that work to disguise my origins...?<br /><br />At any rate, the show seriously SCHMUCKS.<br /><br />On the other hand, the Warner Brothers Studio Tour was really worth the candle. At one point we drove up to a sound-stage (Maybe #24??) that listed the movies that had been shot on its environs; they included The Big Sleep, The Maltese Falcon, and The Music Man. There's American History, and then there's Cultural Touchpoints Along the Way to American History; and Warner Brothers has badly mixed the two.http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2010/08/california-2010-1.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-2184400741286422400Tue, 06 Jul 2010 20:00:00 +00002010-07-06T16:12:25.834-04:00What's In a Name?<img src="http://dumb.com/namedata/showlarge.php?firstname=Neddie&amp;lastname=Jingo" width = "430"/><br /><br />I'm assuming they include the author of the query in the list of people "in the USA."<br /><br />If not, I really, really want to meet this person.<br /><br />It amuses me quite a bit that if you're looking for a name for your newborn, you'd have to reject a list of 856,728 more popular names. But as "fist" names go, it's a beaut.<br /><br /><a href="http://dumb.com/namedata/">Click here to check your own name</a><br /><br />I also tried it with my so-called "real" name: There are two people in the USA who bedeck themselves with its polysyllabic magnificence. Again assuming I'm one of the two, I wonder if they know that my father, who shares our name, doesn't live in the USA anymore.http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2010/07/whats-in-name.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-6637862566152360983Mon, 28 Jun 2010 19:45:00 +00002010-06-28T16:21:34.058-04:00No, Not That Kind of Wasp<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_f6OnMYlBNIU/TCkEMCXDPaI/AAAAAAAAAuI/cAn_QOm_kTs/s1600/wasp.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 374px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_f6OnMYlBNIU/TCkEMCXDPaI/AAAAAAAAAuI/cAn_QOm_kTs/s400/wasp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487922225766153634" border="0" /></a><br />Some three summers ago, I was out working on the motorbike on a sultry evening. Done with my tasks and whistling tunelessly, I gathered up my tools and prepared to head inside.<br /><br />Something stung me on the calf. A yellowjacket must have alighted on the hem of my shorts, and was irritated and acted out in the only way it knew how.<br /><br />A yellowjacket sting is really no big deal, painwise, and I shrugged it off and went on with my evening.<br /><br />Some five minutes later, I noticed I was coming out in hives on my upper chest.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Hmmmm,</span> I thought. <span style="font-style: italic;">That's unusual....</span><br /><br />Took a Benadryl. The hives went away.<br /><br />I mentioned this to my doctor on a routine visit, and she told me sternly that I must now consider myself allergic to wasp stings. I must carry an Epi-pen with me at all times, and should another yellowjacket take it into its head to attack me, I must hit myself with it and call 911. <span style="font-style: italic;">Immediately. Without delay.</span><br /><br />Some months after that, I took a course of therapy: micro-doses of wasp venin, increasing in size until I redeveloped my resistance. Trouble was, life doesn't always cooperate, and I necessarily had to miss the last three doses out of about twelve. So no allergist ever shook me by the hand and congratulated me for being allergy-free.<br /><br />This was the state of affairs last night. I have been living in a sort of limbo, not knowing whether the therapy completely blew the allergy out of me. And I still have the Epi-pen and I renew the prescription every year.<br /><br />Last night, the proposition was tested.<br /><br />Once again walking out of the garage -- <span style="font-style: italic;">doinnnng!</span> Yellowjacket sting on the bare ankle. <span style="font-style: italic;">Well. I guess we're going to find out about that therapy, aren't we.</span><br /><br />A few minutes later, here come the hives.<br /><br />And I panic.<br /><br />"911, what is your emergency?"<br /><br />"I'mallergictowaspstingsandIjustgotstungbyawasp!"<br /><br />(The Epi-pen has a tendency, I now find, to goose the adrenaline levels astronomically. In fact, that's what it is meant to do.)<br /><br />Wonder Woman, meanwhile, was doing a little eye-rolling. <span style="font-style: italic;">Real easy for you to be nonchalant about this, sweetie, but if my throat swells shut in the next five minutes, you're the one who's gonna have to find something to use to intubate me. I'm thinking you should go cut a length of garden hose....</span><br /><br />She did press a couple of Benadryls on me. Funny thing: As I listened to the siren approaching from far, far away, I could feel the pills soothing my hives. I also began to realize that my throat wasn't constricting, my breathing was normal (if a trifle adrenalated), and about the worst thing I was experiencing was minor discomfort on the stung ankle.<br /><br />I met the ambulance at the driveway, feeling more than a bit sheepish. I told them I was the guy who'd called, that the therapy I'd taken had indeed had its intended effect, and that I was sorry to have disturbed their Sunday ease. They very kindly told me I had done exactly the right thing, no sense in taking any chances with something potentially so deadly, took me into the vehicle and checked my vital signs. Everything was well within parameters.<br /><br />I still have one remaining Epi-pen. I'm thinking of ways it could be abused....http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2010/06/no-not-that-kind-of-wasp.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-5220506125088872530Wed, 23 Jun 2010 16:28:00 +00002010-06-23T13:12:08.968-04:00All the Sweet Green Icing Flowing Down<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_f6OnMYlBNIU/TCI4HZvM98I/AAAAAAAAAuA/RoAWQ51p-EM/s1600/LandonDonovan.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_f6OnMYlBNIU/TCI4HZvM98I/AAAAAAAAAuA/RoAWQ51p-EM/s400/LandonDonovan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486008995909793730" border="0" /></a><br />So, Landon Donovan wins the Algeria game for the U.S., sending us into the World Cup™ knockout rounds as Group C winners...<br /><br />I've met him, you know. Oh, yes, we go way back, Landon and me.<br /><br />Some eight or nine years ago, for Freddie's birthday we took a party of ten-year-old boys to RFK Stadium to take in a DC United game. Like most non-major-league teams, United was very solicitous toward groups of boys who visited their stadium to learn about the game, and the birthday-party package (reasonably priced!) included field privileges before the match, in the spaces behind the goals.<br /><br />These areas were, of course, roped off from the field where the players were warming up. Not being a ten-year-old boy myself, I was watching the warmups with rather more interest than that I expended on the Thunder-Stick fencing matches going on behind me. Donovan, then a mere up-and-coming youngster a year or two out of college, kicked an errant ball that came to a stop near me. I picked it up and tossed it to him as he jogged my way.<br /><br />"Thanks," he said.<br /><br />So, like I say, we go way back, me and Landon.<br /><br />But that is not the memory of that game that I treasure the most. This is that memory:<br /><br />About half-time, it came on to rain buckets. Everyone scurried up to the covered part of the stadium to wait out the torrent. As the responsible parents we are, we split the duties: Wonder Woman herded the birthday guests out of the rain, and I remained behind to pick up whatever birthday-party paraphernalia that would not survive a soaking. Carrying armloads of sweatshirts, caps, wrapped presents and the like, I glanced over and saw the remnants of the blue-frosted cake, slowly dissolving into a wet, sugary blob of goo. An idea formed in my mind.<br /><br />I deposited my armloads of stuff safely in dry territory, and then went back. I lifted the platter that held the blue gooey mess, brandished it on high, looked around and made sure I had at least a small audience, and yelled up to Wonder Woman in the next section up: "Honey! <span style="font-style: italic;">Someone left the cake out in the rain!"</span><br /><br />And she didn't even skip a beat: "I don't know if I can take it, 'cause it took so long to bake it, and <span style="font-style: italic;">I'll never have that recipe again!"</span><br /><br />I believe I've observed this before, but it bears repeating: I married that woman for a reason.http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2010/06/all-sweet-green-icing-flowing-down.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10261187.post-1590910286363317823Mon, 21 Jun 2010 13:44:00 +00002010-06-21T14:34:44.412-04:00Oh, the Pain of Listening to You<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_f6OnMYlBNIU/TB9u3VIqGJI/AAAAAAAAAt4/BAk2vuuTb1E/s1600/OldTimeyBand.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 222px; height: 242px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_f6OnMYlBNIU/TB9u3VIqGJI/AAAAAAAAAt4/BAk2vuuTb1E/s400/OldTimeyBand.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485224768005871762" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Well, there's another cherished illusion down the crapper....</span><br /><br />We drove this Friday from our usual Northern Virginia haunts to Greensboro, in the Piedmont of North Carolina. Betty will be starting at Greensboro College in the fall, and Freshman Orientation called her down to choose courses, meet other frosh, and what have you.<br /><br />The trip is drop-dead gorgeous. Down Interstate 81: Winchester, New Market, Harrisonburg, Staunton, and on down to Roanoke, the gentle rolling hills of the Shenandoah Valley giving way to the high, wild Appalachians as you approach the North Carolina and Tennessee state lines. We broke off 81 at Roanoke to follow 220 south to the Piedmont country.<br /><br />The three-finger banjo style made famous by Earl Scruggs originated in the Piedmont. Charlie Poole came from there, as did an huge litany of enormously influential musicians. It was from a North Carolina mountain resort in August 1927 that an already consumptive Jimmie Rodgers, desperate to break into the music industry before he died, showed up at Ralph Peer's Bristol Sessions and cut "The Soldier's Sweetheart" and "Sleep, Baby, Sleep"; at the same session the Carter Family, from Maces Springs not far away, cut "Single Girl, Married Girl" and pretty much kicked off the entire country-music recording industry.<br /><br />So this music permeates this countryside. We are smack-dab in the cradle of country music, the music of the people, and the people of the music, and it permeates all in the same way that jazz permeates New Orleans and the waltz does Vienna. The twang of the banjo and the wail of the fiddle is a constant whisper in the wind, and the people who live here proudly claim ownership and uphold the old traditions....<br /><br />Right? I mean, <span style="font-style: italic;">right?</span><br /><br />We stopped for gas in Boones Mill, south of Roanoke. Completely randomly chose a gas station that also had a Bojangles chicken joint attached to it. A desultory Friday evening crowd ate their chicken in the sultry air -- and there, as if placed there by God for the delectation of Suburban Goober Jingo, <span style="font-style: italic;">was an amateur country band!</span> Playing <span style="font-style: italic;">real, authentic </span>country music!<br /><br />They were <span style="font-style: italic;">ancient.</span> The rhythm guitarist had to have been 85 if he was a day, sunken cheeks telling of lousy Appalachian dentistry. He played in the unusual Lester Flatt picking style: thumb on the downstroke, index finger on the upstroke. The lead guitar-flogger was a bit younger, but not by much. The bassist was probably the baby of the band at 60 or so. The female lead singer, perhaps 70, had hard, angular facial features that sprang straight from a Walker <del>Percy</del> Evans [thanks, Kim! Reminder to self: <span style="font-style:italic;">look shit up!!!]</span> Depression photograph.<br /><br />They swung into "The Pain of Loving You," an old Dolly Parton/Porter Waggoner number that Parton brought to the Trio project with Emmylou Harris and Linda Ronstadt:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Oh, the pain of loving you </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Oh, the misery I go through </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Never knowing what to do </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Oh, the pain of loving you</span><br /><br />As I stood in rapturous anticipation of the countrylicious authenticity of it all, something slightly appalling began to make itself clear...<br /><br />This.<br /><br />Band.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Sucked.</span><br /><br />In the first verse, the rhythm guitar looked over at the bass with a look of concern: <span style="font-style: italic;">Why are you playing a C right now?</span> Both lost the count so badly that it became impossible for the listener to tell where the <span style="font-style: italic;">one</span> was in the measure. The singer floundered, trying to complete a phrase at the spot she thought the measure was going to end, and wound up biting off the whole phrase.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Train wreck.</span><br /><br />Parton, Harris and Ronstadt's singing in the chorus of their version is a master class in three-part harmony singing -- gorgeous interior movement, dissonance resolving to assonance: church harmony meeting the tight close harmony of Thirties and Forties jazz.<br /><br />Let it just be said that the harmony singing on display here was really quite... Not good.<br /><br />This stuff ain't exactly "The Be-Bop Tango," if you know what I mean. They call it "folk music" because it's so simple that "folk" can play it in their parlors. All you need is to be able to count to four while playing simple changes. Sing a third above the melody. Not rocket-science music.<br /><br />I dropped a buck into the collection bucket anyway. At least they were trying.http://byneddiejingo.blogspot.com/2010/06/oh-pain-of-listening-to-you.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Neddie)3